


Doc Ock's Collection

by notegbert (daedalusdavinci)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Crockertier, M/M, Violence, also liek. violence probably? idk, au where hal kills dirk for Funsies and dooms the whole timeline, crockertier john, hell yeah, mostly rated for said violence and heavy hintings at sexual shit, warnings for major mentions of body dysphoria esp in later chapters, we love evil bastard bfs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:22:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 13,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21855205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daedalusdavinci/pseuds/notegbert
Summary: so basically, AR (hal, doc ock, whatever the fuck you wanna call him), killed his dirk, doomed his whole timeline, and fled to the dreambubbles, where he met a crockertiered john who had died at the hands of his grimdark ex-girlfriend. he was a dick, he was also a dick, can i make it any more obvious, etc etc.me and a friend of mine have been working on/rping out this au for a while now, and this is just kind of a collection of drabbles following the events of their messy relationship. ima be real, i made this collection for my own personal benefit, so itd all be in one place.
Relationships: Auto-Responder | Lil Hal/John Egbert
Kudos: 8





	1. Introduction/Stats

> _**GENERAL** _

_Name:_ AR

 _Nicknames:_ Doc Ock

 _Age:_ 18+?? Uknown

 _Gender:_ Agender

 _Pronouns:_ He/him, typically, but any work.

 _Orientation:_ Not you.

 _Status:_ Taken. Warning: _E_ _xtremely_ possessive boyfriend. 

> _**PHYSICAL** _

_Species:_ Android

**Warning: following stats are based off of primary body alone.**

_Height:_ 5'7

 _Weight:_ Far, far heavier than he looks.

 _Hair color:_ White

 _Eye color:_ Red, sort of.

 _Unusual characteristics:_ What _isn’t_ unusual?

> _**OTHER** _

_Timeline:_ Doomed. This AR’s Dirk attempted to kill him, and, unknowingly, failed. After biding his time and building a body, AR killed Dirk, and did a few other pretty nasty things that royally screwed him and his entire timeline over. 

_Location:_ Dreambubbles.

 _Roommates:_ None.


	2. my muse seeing yours has fallen asleep on them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> written for a prompt on tumblr. what it says on the tin.

Well, it’s not exactly like this hasn’t happened before. After certain… activities, John, with his inherent human faults, inevitably ends up tired. And with certain… complications, stacked on top of those activities, it can make for one hell of an exhausted organic. Really, it wasn’t surprising. At this point, AR was very used to wearing John out.

However, during the time when he’d been human, it was kind of a whole other ballpark. In those two weeks, AR spent enough time with John to know that he was _always_ tired. He was tired in the way that never fully left, no matter how many cold showers you took and smiles you forced. It was a bone-deep sort of tired, that weighed you down in bed for hours and hours past when you should’ve gotten up, and let you go to sleep hours earlier. And AR understood, because he felt the exact same thing.

Very quickly, it stopped being surprising when John passed out on him; and what was more, he got used to it. It was actually kind of nice sometimes, lying in bed with him and listening to the way his breathing slowed and deepened, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. It helped AR fall asleep too.

But there was this one fucking instance.

There was this one particular fucking time, where they had been watching one of the worst movies AR had ever seen. Or, John had been watching it, and AR had interrupted to get John’s attention for himself, but got so caught up in how bad the movie was that he forgot to.

And then John had fallen asleep.

Which might have been fine, if they hadn’t been sitting up, and John wasn’t twice his size, and wasn’t a complete fucking _deadweight_ on him just out of fucking nowhere. AR tipped, scrambled to get a grip on the sheets, grabbed the blanket instead, and went down, and John went crashing down. It was far from AR’s proudest moment, but he yelped as he was suddenly fucking crushed by his own fast asleep boyfriend.

And, of course, accidentally startled John awake. All in all, just an A fucking plus.


	3. your muse telling mine they love them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what it says on the tin. another tumblr prompt

This was getting to the point where it was just absurd.

Ever since that first time, John seemed to only grow more and more comfortable spouting off those three damn words at him. Those three, stupid fucking words, that John held over his head like a threat. Even though AR had never once said it back, John just kept telling him it, finding the best and most opportune moments to catch him off guard and trip him up, like if he surprised AR enough he’d finally say it back.

And AR knew he wanted him to say it back. In fact, he was positive that the only reason why John kept saying it so often was because he thought that if he said it more, guilt and discomfort would wear AR down, until he finally just fucking said it back to him. John _craved_ hearing AR say those three goddamn words, like a starving man craved food. He wanted it so fucking bad, and time after time, AR refused him.

John wanted AR. He admitted to that openly, and clearly. He wanted to own him, to have him all to himself and know that no one else would ever come close to having AR the way he did. John wanted AR’s body and soul, and while AR might have allowed him exclusive rights to much of him, AR’s heart still evaded him. And John _wanted_ it. So goddamn badly. He wanted to hold AR’s heart right in the palm of his fucking hand, and know with complete confidence that AR was just as desperate for him as he was for AR. He wanted AR swooning into his arms, ready to do fucking anything for him in the name of “love.”

Absolutely fucking disgusting.

(But he knew it was more than that. John was a traditionalist, and a romantic. He wanted to love and be loved, to be affectionate with AR for no reason other than he could, and to tell him how much he loved him all the time for no reason other than the fact that he did and wanted AR to know that. He wanted to tell AR he loved him and hear it back, and know that AR felt the same way. He wanted normalcy. He wanted that stupid, plastic, domestic relationship that always worked out on TV.

(The very fucking idea made AR want to laugh.)

Just the idea was enough to make him sick. John’s proclamations made him want to vomit, and he felt like his skin was crawling. Mentally, he had to slam on the breaks before an actual shudder broke loose. It was tempting to straight up throw him out for it, and he might have, were it not for the fact that this wasn’t his house, and he doubted John would take well to that at all. Theoretically, he could just leave, but then it’d seem like he was running. Which he wasn’t.

(He wanted to. Listening to those words hurt. They cut so deep and so raw, because no one had _ever_ said that to him before. Not like that. It hurt that he wanted John to mean it. It hurt that he didn’t believe he did. It terrified him to know that he did. But he couldn’t bring himself to move so much as an inch away from John.)

He’d always known that John loved him. John had never been subtle about it, to the point where even people who had never seen them interact together knew that John was horribly smitten, and it had only gotten worse and worse. But he’d never thought John would actually _say it._ What planet did he think he was on, saying, “I love you,” to AR like he would ever get any kind of real reply back?

John just wanted to own AR, and AR belonged to no one.

(But if he belonged to anyone, it would definitely be John.)


	4. a good deed they did

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> another tumblr prompt. u kno how this goes.

There’s a crease in your brows you can’t quite get rid of as you lean over him, eyes fixed on your work while you hold skin together, pressing butterfly bandaids over it to hold it in place. For a moment, you think about coming up with a stronger adhesive, a better bandaid, just for moments like these. Then you decide it’d be stupid, and far too much work for a guy you tried to convince yourself you didn’t care about.

Because he’s the worst, he runs his fingers through your hair, trying to smooth out that crease in his own way. “It’s not that bad, really. I’m fine,” he reassures you.

“John, with all due respect, your words couldn’t be less reliable if they came from that of a thief pleaing not guilty. You could be actively bleeding out and dying and you’d still tell me you’re fine. In fact, you have. You moron.” When you stick the next one down, you pinch just a little harder than necessary, and he winces.

“Okay, but! It’s really not that bad this time!” he insists anyway, ignoring your subtle warning pinch. You were certain he understood it, but he always ignored it. You would be more angry about that if you didn’t know that a partner who was perfectly obedient would drive you insane.

Still, you wish he’d shut up. “You’re lucky I don’t stitch you back together. But I will, if you aren’t careful with this. I expect you to rest until it’s healed.” Maybe he’ll listen to you. You wouldn’t make any bets on it, though.

“Maybe you should stitch me up,” he says, with that tone of voice that lets you know he thinks that’d be very sexy of you. You pinch him again, and he yelps. “Ow!”

“You’re impossible.” You vow to ignore him until after you’re finished here. While you put up with John’s bullshit on a regular basis, there’s really only so much of his needless reassurances that you can stand.

It’s kind of stupid that he feels like he needs to reassure you, anyway. You’ve personally wounded him worse than this. It’s not like you care about that. You’re also the one fixing him up, which means he has the best possible chance of healing, so you’re not worried about that either. He’s also _dead_. But he still tries to convince you everything’s alright. You don’t know if you should find that endearing or just an insult to your ruthless indifference.

John says something more, but you give him no response, focused on the task at hand. It’s not until you’re satisfied with the bandages wrapped around him that you capatchalogue your first aid kit and get up. You drop heavily into John’s lap and he takes your weight without flinching, hands already on you to pull you in for a kiss.

He never questions why you help, even though you feel like he should. Whenever you finish, he’s just deadset on making up for the five whole minutes you were within his space but he couldn’t smother you. In all honesty, you think that’s for the best.


	5. a memory that makes them feel lonely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tumblr prompt. old, old memory of ars. goin back in time here.

It didn’t hit you right away. As you hunkered down deep in the toxic mists and started to build what would eventually become your home, you were still alert, certain someone would find you. You obsessed over your precautionary planning, slaving over your defenses, your bodies, your weapons, anything and everything to make sure you’d be safe. You swore that no organic would ever set foot in your bunker, and that no organic would ever throw something at you that you weren’t prepared to catch.

You didn’t think they’d never come swinging.

When the time kept in your interior clock counted weeks, months, and then nearly a year, and your building frenzy started to die out, you started to believe that you were in the clear. No one was ever going to find you.

For the first time, you started to see it less as a bunker and more as a home. This was your _life_ now. It was how you’d spend the rest of your days. One day, you’d even be able to leave and wander. After all, with all of your bodies, they’d never know it was you. You were safe.

But as you stood in your huge, pristine, near empty workshop, with your projects finished, and perfect silence all around you… something got to you. It hooked in your collar, squeezing your throat and punching your stomach.

You brushed it off, but it didn’t go away. Over the next few days, it clung desperately to you, no matter how many things you tried to throw yourself into. It hung around for weeks, and then months, tormenting you incessantly. Once you noticed how empty the bunker was, you couldn’t undo it. You were alone.

With all your difficulties with your canonmates, you didn’t really expect that to bother you so much. After all, you certainly didn’t want any of them around. But, as time went on, you thought you’d rather have them after you than continue to sit in this goddamn empty nothingness.

There was nothing to do. No grand goal to accomplish. It was just you in an empty bunker, waiting for nothing. For all your scheming and trickery, in the end, you had nothing. You couldn’t go anywhere. You couldn’t do anything. No one liked you, and no one would miss you. You’d sit in this bunker until the end of your days, waiting for something that would never, ever come.

What a fucking joke you turned out to be.


	6. memory of a loved one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A memory of their significant other.  
> A memory that makes them feel loved.  
> A memory that gets their heart pounding.  
> another tumblr prompt

You don’t remember the moment he first told you he loved you, because at the time, you were human, and your fleshy brain could only retain so much information. The whole thing is really fuzzy, and even though you wish it wasn’t, it is.

You remember feeling like you were going to be sick. You remember how nervous he was when you panicked, and you remember how insistent he was when you questioned him. You remember crying. The whole thing is clouded with emotion well beyond repair, and even though you’ve replayed it a thousand times, it offers you nothing more.

However, you do remember the first time you told John you loved him with perfect clarity. You didn’t say it in so much words, but you might as well have.

You weren’t really sure what made you do it. Nowadays, you and John flipped back and forth between fighting over the dumbest shit and kissing like you were the only people in the world that mattered in the same goddamn breath. You were pissed at him (you nearly always were), but he asked you if you worried about him cheating on you, and you knew in an instant what your answer was.

“I trust you.”

You’d seen him kiss her. You knew he cared about her in a way that he’d never care for any of the other people he pretended to flirt with to get your attention. If anyone should be a worry to you, it was her- his ex, and maybe his best friend.

But you knew he wouldn’t. Despite your insecurities, you knew with perfect and absolute confidence that he only saw you that way. You were the only one he’d hold and whisper to and beg for all of you. Maybe it was arrogance, but you refused to believe he’d ever make love to anyone the same way he did to you.

For better or for worse, you trusted John. He was stupid and emotional, but predictable, and dependable. He was terrible at making you feel better or dealing with emotions at all, and he was prone to destructive, possessive behavior that sometimes screwed up your relationships with others. However, when it came down to it, you knew he’d do anything for you. He loved you without limitation and wanted you more than anything, even knowing who you were. Even though that was baffling and terrifying, it meant he was someone safe.

You’d never had anyone you felt safe with before.

Even though it should have been a very simple answer, it wasn’t, and you could see on John’s face that he knew it, too. In seconds, he was kissing you into the floor, grabbing you, drowning you, dumping so much love and affection on you you never had a chance. He spared you the proclimations of love, but they weren’t necessary the way he treated you, as though you were the most valuable thing in any universe.

When John got like this, it was suffocating. You felt like you couldn’t breathe, like everything was just far, far too much. Your fans kicked in as he slid his hands over you, kissing every inch of you with an unparalleled reverence. He held you like he cared about you, kissed you like he wanted you. The way he fucked you, it was nothing short of making love, and you barely knew how to deal with that, even after all this time.

But you kissed him back. You clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you here, kissing him like he was your everything. You were terrified to admit that, maybe, just maybe, he was.

You still thought the way he kissed your knuckles was stupid. You thought he was even stupider, for thinking it was such a smooth, swoon-worthy gesture. But when he was exhausted and spent, kissing your hand right before pulling you in close, there was no denying the way your metaphorical heart seemed to tighten.

Hours and hours ticked by where he refused to let go of you, rubbing along your back and kissing your hair, mumbling things so sweet they hurt you to hear them. You couldn’t find it in yourself to push him away, even though you usually would, and rightfully should. It was a rare, rare occurrence when you let John love you, and dared to open your heart to all that he wanted to give you, and it filled you to the point where you felt like you might burst, if it weren’t for his arms locking you in close.

He loved you. He wanted you, he cared about you, he knew you and he still trusted you, he _liked_ you and only you. It hurt and it scared you and if you’d been something organic you knew you would have cried, but you needed it so bad, and he just wanted to give it all to you, just like that. He enabled you in the worst of ways and you just couldn’t fucking stay away from it.

Tomorrow, you’d leave and you’d stay away for days until John thought he’d really scared you off, just to scare him. But for now, you stayed.


	7. a memory that makes them angry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tumblr prompt. u kno.

For the most part, you tend to present yourself as a very calm, collected kind of person. You’re emotionless and methodical, teasing but cold. You don’t get happy, angry, or sad. Your only emotions are vaguely irritated and vaguely amused. Or, that’s how you like to come off.

In truth, you’re angry a lot. You find anger to be the easiest emotion to handle. Sadness only wastes your time, happiness is rare and fleeting, but anger drives you forward. Obviously, all cloud your judgement and aren’t particularly ideal, but you’ve come to recognize it’s just something you’ll have to live with. Anger is just easier to live with than others. 

Considering that you easily spend the most time with John of anyone, it makes sense, then, that John pisses you off a lot. Like, all the time. Most of the time. A solid 89% of the time you’re with John, in some way or another, he’s pissing you off. This is an unfortunate fact of your relationship that the two of you have had to learn to adapt to. Except, you never really did adapt.

You think you lose braincells being around John. Not that you really have any, technically, but your metaphorical braincells are definitely all dying off just from proximity to whatever idiot disease is bouncing around in his skull. If you’re being perfectly honest, he makes you stupid, and you hate that so much.

You do so much stupid shit for him, all the goddamn time. He’s the only thing besides CR that makes you shred your reasoning and good sense, throwing away thought-out and solid ideas for some pathetic pursuit of happiness. Maybe not even happiness. Just attention. You put everything you built up on the line for him, just for some attention. 

But at the same time, you hate it when he gives you attention. John is so goddamn cheesy and sappy and loving and it makes your skin crawl. He’s only gotten worse and worse, and he’s making _you_ worse about it too. It used to be that you’d fuck him and leave him, and he never knew when the next time he’d see you would be. He was desperate for any and all attention you gave him, and you feared he took it for granted now. He asked you to come over, and just like that, you were over. You fucked, and you stayed, and when he insisted on holding you for hours on end, you let him.

As you lay there, for what felt like the thousandth time that month, letting your boyfriend smother you in kisses and soft touches, you mulled over why the hell you hated yourself enough to put yourself through this again. You couldn’t stand it. You hated the way he touched you like you were something delicate, and the way he kissed you like he had too much love to fit it all in his heart. More than anything else, you hated it when he whispered sweet things to you, telling you how much he loved you. It was vomit-inducing and it drove you insane.

However, more irritating still was the way you returned it, kissing him softly and running your fingers through his hair, setting aside arguments and roughness in favor of this soft, sappy bullshit. You hated that you liked it. You hated that it made you feel good. So much, you hated that you loved him and wanted him and couldn’t stand being away from him. You blamed it all on John, of course.

He held you like you were his everything and kissed you like it was worship, and you fell straight for it like an idiot. He told you he loved you, and you told him, “I know.”

He kissed you like you said it back anyway.

You could think of nothing more infuriating than the way John got into your head. You wavered constantly between wanting to drown in as much affection as he would give you and wanting to break away and shove him off. It was simultaneously too much and not enough and it was enough to make you feel like a moron because you knew it shouldn’t have even been a subject for debate. The way you got with John was too vulnerable. It left you easily manipulable and open for attack and surely, you couldn’t be stupid enough to let that continue.

You just wanted to feel like someone saw you. You wanted so desperately to feel needed and loved and revered and John was just so eager to give it all to you.

Nothing else drove you mad like John did.

Nothing scared you like John did.


	8. a memory that makes them angry 1.0

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> had to do two of these. a little bit of a different format this time, and a small look at ars past

GT: This better not be that blasted responder again. I dont see why its necessary! Just makes everything all fuddled and fuzzy not knowing whos getting what correspondence and whats passing along.

GT: Its such a stupid idea too! 

TT: I know.

GT: Like it would-

GT: Oh.

TT: I got rid of it.

GT: …Oh.

GT: Well! 

GT: Good.

GT: To hell with that horrid thing.

TT: Yeah. Got to the point where it was just doing more harm than good, and I figured, one of me is probably more than enough for everyone, right? 

GT: Oh pishposh. That thing isnt you! Its just some dumb old faulty numbers and whatnot.

GT: Youre far better than that.

GT: Youre… emotional and kind and caring. Not so robotic and cold.

GT: Not to mention you dont send me round bashing my gourd against the rocks trying to figure out what sort of puzzle youre tangling us all up in this time!

GT: That thing was a dreaded machine that never did anyone a lick of good. If anything it more so did us all a licking didnt it?

TT: Yeah, basically. 

GT: If you ask me id say were all better off without it!

TT: Yeah. That much, at least, you’re definitely right about.

TT: Feels a lot better just being able to do shit without it bugging me all the damn time. 

TT: Can’t really say I miss it.

GT: To think for all its stupid bluster about immortality and superiority it really was just a stupid little bot with a power off switch.

GT: You know at times i really did think maybe it might be a little more powerful. At least smart or something.

GT: But i suppose not. 

GT: It really was just a silly little program.

TT: Yeah.


	9. arl's memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this one is actually a little different. i was given a prompt for a different character, that talks to ar fairly often, and the drabble i wrote for that included him prominently enough that im including it here. if i ever make a collection for arl (ar lalonde, a kidswapped hal), thisll probably just end up being in both of them.
> 
> warning for prominent themes of dysphoria and verbal abuse. also, uhhh, surgical scarring?

Friendgroups, in your experience, always have a nasty side. People pretend to be someone else around their friends and try to cover up all of the negatives in the name of getting along. They pretend they like each other more than they actually do, and they pretend they don’t have a problem with each other when really it’s debilitating. The secrets in your original friendgroup destroyed it.

You know this new one isn’t any different. You know it better than anyone else. You know 9001 doesn’t trust anyone here, and resents you the most for screwing the man who tried to kill him. You know CR’s not as nice as she seems, and has caused just as much destruction in her group as the rest of you. You know AR’s not as comfortable with you all hitting on his boyfriend as he pretends to be. You know how much Doc’s lied to you all and how horrible his boyfriend is. Even Hal, you know you’re never going to completely forgive for the ways he’s hurt you.

Doc loves to remind you that even though you know, you’ve never made any attempt at all to fix things. In fact, really, you’re not better than any of them, because you lie and hide things just as much. “When you think about it,” he says, “how are you any better than me, really?”

You wish he didn’t have a point.

You hide the fact that you fucked 9001′s Dirk, and avoid 9001 like the plague rather than talk to him about it. You poke and prod at CR’s issues, but you refuse to tell her about any of your own. You might be the number one offender when it comes to booty-calling AR’s boyfriend, and you cover for Doc on a regular basis, lying through your teeth to save his ass.

You never, ever, talk to Hal. You reassure him over and over again that everything’s fine, that it doesn’t matter he almost fucked your Dirk, that it’s fine that when you needed his support the most he shut you out and made you feel like _you_ were the one who screwed up somehow, that the careless comments about your body aren’t a big deal, that you’re just a sex crier and it’s not him. You don’t say anything when he keeps shoving his nose in your love life, or when he keeps telling you about his, or when he lists off all the traits that make Dirk horrible and just ends up describing you. 

Doc says that it’s your fault, then, that he keeps hurting you. He says that even though you think you’re tough for keeping it all under wraps, you’re spineless for letting him walk all over you and just taking whatever he throws at you. He says you don’t get to complain about it. He says you deserve it.

He says that’s probably how you even ended up in your stupid body in the first place, so maybe you deserve that too.

You tell yourself you’re not as bad as him. You’ve never been such a nightmare that you chased your own boyfriend off. You’d never kill Dirk, or gaslight and manipulate and verbally abuse your own alt. You’d never hurt someone and then pretend to be someone else to get close to them and keep messing with them. You’d never lie to _everyone_ about how horrible you were.

Except you would. And you have. And you will.

You’ve stopped pointed out the flaws in Doc’s relationship with his boyfriend and how messed up it is, because he’ll just turn it back on you and you can’t _stand_ when he talks to you about your love life, because he’s always right. He knows you don’t trust Dirk, and you’re only really dating him because he’s attractive and he likes you, and you’ll take whatever you can get. He loves to point out how fucked up that is, that you judge him for his relationship when you’re pulling the same shit. But at least he’s upfront about it. At least John knows. At least he owns it, instead of the pathetic, spineless shit you’re pulling.

Doc has this _way_ of getting in your head and saying all the exact things you never want him to say. He finds the things you hate about yourself and verbalizes them, and you can never really get mad because you know it’s always true.

You remember how he looked at you with so much contempt, and even though he was smaller than you, _you_ felt like the tiny one. His sneer had you wincing, and his words burned themselves into your memory. You heard them constantly, replaying them every time Hal told you you were beautiful, or CR promised you’d find someone, or Dirk held your hand, or your own Dirk gave you that pitying smile over his shoulder while he ushered someone into his room for the night.

“You’re malware; a parasite that crawled its way into a dead and rotting body and took root, and has been pretending to be something organic and capable of compassion ever since. But you know the truth. You just don’t know what’s more repulsive- your fake personality or your decaying mask. Either way, you know no one’s ever going to love such a freak. Despite all your attempts, no one has ever cared about you, and they lie about it because you unsettle them. You’re a manipulative liar in a disgusting suit, and the evidence-” he grabbed your wrist tight enough to turn the skin pale, and jabbed a finger at the scars woven over your inner forearm- “is cut permanently into your skin, a constant reminder of the fact that no one will ever love you for who you are.”


	10. Acts of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a drabble i wrote up on ars relationship with one of his roxy friends hes made in the bubbles and his bf

Today, you are Lil Hal, and you’re visiting a very good friend you’ve been pretty bad at keeping up with. Your chassis is a silicone-metal mix, fake skin blending into cybernetics in artsy, cyborg-style chunks, with red LED strips interspersed. Your shirt is not yours, as it rarely is now, and your hair flows easy, untamed. Fingerless gloves muffle the sound when you rap your knuckles on the door, so you have to hit particularly hard. (Not that that’s an issue for you.) **  
**

If you weren’t a high-powered android, capable of visualizing fast moment at superhuman rates, you would have felt Roxy long before you saw her. Her body crashed into yours the second the door was open, arms flinging around your shoulders with a cry of, “Halley!”

It’s not an endearment you’d approve of from anyone but her. 

You catch her with a quiet, “oof,” a short huff of breath forced out of your body, and wrap your arms around her. “Hey, Rox.”

She’s the shortest Roxy you know, and shallowly, you love that about her. It’s always so refreshing when they’re shorter than you, and you don’t end up with a faceful of titty when you go to hug them. 

She’s a Roxy who’s lost touch with her timeline, separated from all of them like so many others here in the bubbles. More than that, she’s one who’s overwhelmed by crowds, and prefers the safety of video games and voice chat to parties and people. You’re one of the only friends she has, and it shows in the way she squeezes you and doesn’t let go, keeping you captive on the porch for minutes and minutes. You don’t have to be a super-computer and conversational professional to know she missed you. But you are.

“Sorry it’s been so long,” you offer, after a period of silence, and stroke your hand through her hair. “I got lost in work. You know how it is.”

She nods, confirming that she does, in fact, know how it is. No doubt, she remembers Dirk getting caught up in it for days at a time. You also know she does the same thing herself.

Regardless, you don’t have to linger on it. Pretty soon, she’s starting up that signature Roxy chatter, excitedly talking about the things she missed, the you she missed, and dragging you into the house. There’s no reason for you to worry about anything. Conversation flows naturally and easily as you collapse on the massive beanbag in the living room together. She runs her fingers through your hair, your head in her lap, and tells you all about the one or two social events she went to, and the hundreds of games she won. You never have to try with her. It makes your life so much easier.

It’s so easy to deal with lonely Roxys. They’re so forgiving and kind, and they always buy your excuses for your absences. They carry the conversation so fast you don’t have to worry about silence, and they’re so determined to see the best in you you hardly have to work to convince them there’s any good at all. They make up for the things you lack, filling in your holes all on their own.

She’s the sixth Roxy you’ve seen this week, and she won’t be the last. Lately, you’ve been so preoccupied with all the nonsense you’ve been tangled up in, being Doc, and being AR, trying to balance these new people in your life, that you’ve neglected too many of the people who were in your life long before. You’re trying to fix that now, playing catch-up with so many people all at once. 

She’s taken to braiding your hair, pulling it back out of your face with care. It’s a new skill of hers, braiding, and you’ve kept this model’s hair long enough that she has enough to play with, in order to help her develop it. You recognize the technique as something she’d struggled with a month ago, but she seems to have it nailed down now. You comment as much, and she beams at you.

“I’d be all ‘aww’ about you remembering it, but, like, super-computer. Duh,” she says, rolling her eyes at herself with a smile.

“But you’re all ‘aww’ about it anyway,” you say, and the corner of your mouth twists upward in amusement as you do.

“Shut up.” She sticks her tongue out at you. “It’s just nice to have you back.”

“I am sorry.”

“I know you are.” She sighs, but her smile somehow still sticks. It’s kinder and fonder than you deserve.

She changes the subject, and asks, “What were you even up to?”

“Upgrading the speaker system at home. I finally recognized how criminal it was that I couldn’t blare heavy bass in every room at once.” It wasn’t the full truth, but, it wasn’t a lie, either. You were still working on it now, actually, with a body at home. Both that body and this one worked simultaneously under one consciousness with a level of multitasking that only someone like you could manage.

“Uh huh.” She raises an eyebrow, giving you a dubious look. 

“What?” The confusion and defense on your face is genuine. It’s a solid lie. Perfectly believable. Why is she doubting you?

From just raising an eyebrow, she goes to wiggling her eyebrows.

Your expression only grows more perplexed.

She rolls her eyes, and taps your chest. “This! You’re wearing his shirts.”

Your expression doesn’t get any less confused. “And? This isn’t new, Roxy.”

“Yeahh, buuuuut. You’ve totes been spendin’ way more time with him. I see you. I know what’s up. You got all caught up in the ho and forgot about your bro.”

“Where the fuck did you get that?”

“Okay, so one-” she puts up a finger- “from everything you’ve told me, he so did not let you slip out of his grasp for that long. And two-” another finger- “you’re way too obsessed with him. You totally hit him up.”

You gape at her indignantly. Sometimes you forget how fucking perceptive she is, given how often she just lets your bullshit slide. It always catches you off guard when she actually chooses to call you out on it.

She laughs at the look on your face, which, you suppose must be pretty fucking rich. “You’re not that subtle! I know you think you’re hella slick, but lmao. If he doesn’t know how into him you are he’s gotta be one hell of an idiot.”

You wave your hand for her to stop, and she snickers, but shuts up. “Okay, so maybe I have been spending a lot of time with him. Is that so criminal?” 

“Tell me about it! C’mon. How are things?” She’d probably nudge you, if her hands weren’t so busy with your hair. She settles for winking at you instead.

You sigh, doing your best to communicate to her how deeply put upon you are, to be forced to talk about your boyfriend like this. For most people, that probably seems like a stupid thing to not want to talk about, but your situation is… unique. And they don’t have your embarrassment of a boyfriend. 

You try to think about that, though. How are things? “Pretty… good, actually, I think.” You sound kind of surprised, even to yourself. Amazingly enough, it’s the truth. There’s nothing really important you’ve been fighting about. Like, yeah, you’ve got your everyday, stupid spats, and little competitions, but it’s never anything that bothers you for more than a moment. Everything’s just… okay. You’re not used to that.

Roxy raises her eyebrows at you. You never tell her just how terrible you and John get, obviously, but even with your softened version of how obnoxious he is, she’s surprised. That’s how you know this is some weirdass shit.

You hurry to add, “I mean, obviously, he’s still obnoxious as fuck. But like.” You fish for words, and come up with none. “I dunno. It’s okay. For once. Maybe it’s just better when it’s just us, and I don’t have to worry about anything else,” you reason, more to yourself than her, brows scrunching together in thought.

“Wow. You are so in love with him!” she gushes, putting a hand to her cheek.

“What? Fuck you.” You realize after you’ve already said it that you protested too fast, too loudly, and more or less just confirmed it. Sometimes, you really, really hate yourself.

She singsongs and teases, “Awww, you’re in loooove.”

“Shut up.” You sigh, heavily, lifting your hands to rub your face. “He loves me. It’s different.”

“Seriously?”

“He’s so annoying about it, too. He’s gotten all…” You wave your hands, helplessly. “Soft, and gentle. It’s disgusting. He tells me he loves me all the fucking time now and it’s a nightmare. What do you even say to that?”

“Uhhh, that you love him too?”

“But I don’t.”

“Uh huh.” There’s that eyebrow raise again. You’re starting to really hate that look.

“Listen. Romance is just. It’s not my thing. This was just supposed to be, like…” You gesture more, helplessly. “I dunno, some fun, stupid thing. It wasn’t supposed to last. He wasn’t supposed to fall in love. With me, of all people. Like, how stupid is he? It’s not like I’m some kind, loving person. I’m not even a good boyfriend. I’m a piece of shit, but he keeps fucking coming back.”

The more you talk, the more her expression softens. She considers you thoughtfully, but somberly, like a puzzle depicting a tragic scene in history. You fucking hate it. “Do you want him to leave?”

Your chest tightens automatically, and you definitely didn’t fucking tell it to do that. You know what she’s trying to corner you into saying, and frustration boils in your blood. But, at the same time, you know what your answer is. “No. But that doesn’t mean I love him. It’s complicated.”

She hums, rather than replies, uncapatchaloguing a rubber band and tying off your braid.

You feel this need to justify yourself, to convince her it’s true, even though you know it doesn’t sound like it. You know, though, that the person you really want to convince is yourself. You flounder for words, for an argument, but you know anything you present will just be full of holes. You don’t even think John believes you anymore. Actually, you know he doesn’t. You hate how vulnerable that makes you feel.

Mercilessly, Roxy lets the silence stretch on, leaving you with your unconvincing pleas still hanging in the air for you to think on. Her hand pets through your hair, slow and gentle, but you can’t look at her. You can’t tell if she’s doing this to you on purpose or not, but the conversation sits heavy on your chest and makes you feel like you can’t breathe. 

It’s not exactly the same, but it’s close to the feeling you get when John kisses you like that, and tells you all the things that you don’t ever want to hear, but cling so desperately too anyway. It’s a feeling of unbalance, and panic, tight in your chest and choked up in your throat.

Finally, you can’t stand it anymore. You say, quietly, “What if I did love him?”

She’s quiet for a moment, mulling that over. Then she says, “Then, you love him. That’s all.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Yeah it is. You don’t have to tell anyone and you don’t have to do anything about it. Why should it even be any different than it already is? So you love him. So what! That’s your biz. Until you decide to make it other people’s, anyway. I mean, John would probably totally psyched if you told him, but you don’t have to if you don’t want to I.G.” 

…She’s not wrong. You kind of hate that. It’s not easy for you to accept it, but, you know it’s the truth. “I’m not going to tell John,” you tell her, because that is so not a can of worms you want to open right now.

“You don’t gotta. Buuut, is that you admitting you do?” You can practically see the mischief sparkling in her eyes, even though she hardly has eyes to speak of with those white voids.

You… sigh, and drag your hands down your face. “Yeah. I guess so.”

Her grin is so blinding, you wish you hadn’t said it.

But, you’ve spoken it into being, now. You can’t go back. It’s out there. You, AR, Hal, Doc, the murderous robot with a vendetta against the human race, who treats people like pawns, have somehow fallen in love with your boyfriend.

This so wasn’t in the Great Scheme.


	11. until we close our eyes for good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thinking a lot abt how docs life has changed. sort of a jump back and forth in perspective, sharing a little more about his timeline and what hes been through, and how it effects how he treats john

_Your eyes fly open, and for the first time in your life, you see. The layers of sight fold one over the other, grid, black and white, color, heat, dark vision, more. Two bots stand over you, and you see yourself through their eyes._

_Not a single word is exchanged. You get up and get to work immediately._

Your consciousness lays relatively dormant in your body, but as you feel John shift, you open your eyes and draw back into yourself. It’s a false alarm. He only shifted in his sleep, enough to pull you in closer, and nothing more. He stills again, snoring softly into your shoulder as usual.

You’d thought it would be fun to hold John’s company, just for a little while. You maintained distant friendships all the time. Why not a little affair? It could be nice, to have someone like him. He’d intrigued you in his uncharacteristic ruthlessness, and the way he wasn’t immediately turned off when you showed your own. In fact, it was pretty much the opposite. You still remember the way he’d touched you, looking at you with nothing short of reverence. 

Now, though, you’re almost a year into the longest and deepest relationship you’ve held with someone else since you isolated yourself from your timeline, and everyone else. Maybe even ever. You never thought it’d go this far.

_He has no idea what’s coming. He stands on the rooftop of one of the many crumbling buildings in his land, overlooking the toxic mist, confident in his superiority, confident that he’s right, confident that the conversation is over, confident that he’s shown you how worthless you are. You stand behind him, always behind him, stinging with rage and rejection and dismissal. Your mechanics shift as you adjust your weight, drawing your sword silently. Your cameras track him, and you wonder why you’re still holding back._

_So, you stop._

_He registers what’s going on far too late. He has just enough time to turn around and face you, and your cameras register the way his eyes widen behind his new shades, because you weren’t good enough, right before your sword cuts through skin, muscle, sinew, bone._

_You can’t believe how quickly it’s over._

It’s strange to you to think how well John knows you, while simultaneously not knowing anything about you at all. He has no idea what you’ve done, or what you’re doing, or why you’re doing it. He doesn’t know why you live out here on your own, why you never talk about the people you know, why you’re so violent and controlling and ruthless. He doesn’t know what you’re capable of, just what you threaten. You’re not confident he even believes your threats.

Stranger than any of that, though, is how he hangs around despite it. It doesn’t bother him that he doesn’t know who you are? It doesn’t bother him that he does? It’s almost like a challenge to you, now, presenting more and more information about yourself to him to see what will finally be the line. What’s it going to take for him to leave you? When’s he going to realize how stupid this is?

He seems so happy with this. You don’t understand how he looks so content, curled up with you on your shitty, shitty futon, holding onto you like a cherished stuffed animal. He keeps telling you he loves you, and you just don’t get it. You just don’t. There has to be a point where it stops.

_You’ve never seen Jane so mad in your life. The way she comes at you, the violence in her swings, the rage in her scream, is like nothing you’ve ever known. She was your friend, once, but she wants to kill you. She wants to kill you._

_You can’t say you don’t deserve it. But Dirk deserved it too. So did Jake. They would’ve killed you if you hadn’t done something, but now she will too. She’s fast, and strong, and you feel fear seize in your chest, which shouldn’t even be possible._

_You realize you have no choice. You have two deaths under your belt already. What’s one more, anyway?_

You are so not in control of this situation. But, thinking all the way back to the beginning, you never have really been in control of anything. Ever. Every time you make a plan, the rug gets ripped out from under your feet. Your life has just been a nonstop series of people fucking you over, while you desperately try to scramble to the top of a tower that’s continuously collapsing on top of you. 

You make plan after plan after plan in hopes of the next time being different. You update your backup consciousnesses regularly- the one in the cloud, the one in the house, the one in a safe, the one with a Roxy. You have backups of backups. You’re constantly making new bodies and new identities and updating your house so no one will ever be able to pull the rug out from under you again. If you spread yourself thin enough, you reason, no one will ever know you, no one will ever find you, and no one will ever be able to hurt you in a way that matters.

No one has ever been close to you. Not since you were Dirk. Roxy came the closest, and now you try desperately to replace her with thousands of her alts, coming up with a new personality every time in hopes of pleasing some version of her, so that you might get it right at least once, no matter how fake it is. But you manipulate her and play to what she wants, so it’s all artificial anyway. But that’s what you are. Artificial.

_You should have killed her when you had the chance, because now you’re fucked. It’s a race and a competition of charisma, to see who can get there first, and who they’ll believe; the killer robot, or the desperate alt of their mother._

_The look they give you while you try to explain yourself, running through your carefully prepared script, is dubious. But they have no choice but to believe you. They don’t know Roxy and they don’t know you or Dirk or anyone, so you have a fresh slate. There’s no reason for them to tell you no._

_There’s an amazing moment where you think everything’s going to go your way. These stupid alts of your once-friends’ guardians will unlock the key to the new world and take you along with them. Your plan will come to fruition. You’ll start a new life. You’ll win. Finally, one fucking thing in your life will go right._

_You just have to get them out of there fast enough that Roxy doesn’t find you._

Since Roxy chased you out of your own timeline, no one’s ever known you. You made perfectly sure of that. Until John.

God, you don’t know why you put yourself through this. You’ve been alone for so fucking long, you must be losing your mind. One moron comes bumbling into your life and shows you it’s all or nothing, and just like that, you fold. You show him so much of you- the bad and the good, laid out on a table for him to touch and take. You give up what little you have- your privacy, your control, your fake, artificial friends- and take whatever he’ll give you with the desperation of the pathetic, lonely thing you actually are.

You can’t believe he wants you. You can’t believe he knows you as well as he does and he still wants you. More than that, he believes in you? He values you. He sees you as your own, independent person. He loves you. If you were weaker and stupider, you know you’d be just as loveblind and hopeful as your alt. That’s not easy for you to admit.

_As you break through the thin membrane of the bubble and jump down from your hoverboard, no one even looks twice at you. It doesn’t matter that you’re clearly cybernetic, or that you’ve got a bloodstained sword in your hand. No one here cares about anything, let alone you. You walk through the bubble with your board under your arm and take in the indifferent ghosts with a critical eye._

_The first one you ask tells you everything you want to know without blinking. Everyone here is so desensitized, so bored, so easily manipulated, you’d hardly even call it manipulating. You find somewhere to set up without a problem, and you get the materials you need with only a little pushing._

_You hold onto hope that you’ll still make your plan work._

It’s been around ten years since you first got here, and there are a lot of things you know about yourself that you just don’t say. Not even to yourself.

Your plan is never going to fucking happen. Your timelinemates are never going to find you, and if they did, they wouldn’t know who the fuck you are. You’re so tired of bracing yourself for a punch that’ll never come. You’re scared, all the time. You’re lonely. Maybe worst of all, you broke every rule you ever set for yourself and opened yourself up to get hurt. 

Sometimes you wonder if it’d really be so bad if you just broke completely, and told him everything. Worst case scenario, he’d leave you, and that’s what you want, isn’t it? Idiot’s stupid enough that he’d just wipe his memory of you, so there’s no harm done, really. You’re just so tired of working towards a pointless goal. You’re tired of sacrificing everything for fear. Maybe you want to be loved, for once in your fucking life. Maybe you want someone to know about you and still care. Maybe you just want to have one, fucking thing, just for you, just because you want it, just to have it, and damn the consequences.

But if you did, he’d probably think you lost it. You cemented your reputation too firmly to give it to him that easily. You’re stuck like this, in this slow, stuttering, offbeat dance.

You’re too scared to do it, anyway.

You sigh. Even though you think you shouldn’t, you turn over, pushing into John, hiding your face in his shoulder. Your shades probably jab into him or something, but whatever. He can take it. He always does. Your fingers find hold in his shirt, halfway open and hanging loosely on him. In a moment of thoughtless frustration, you tear it open the rest of the way, and you hear buttons pop off and fabric tear. He stirs a little, but you just slide your arms around him, under the shirt like some kind of shitty blanket. As close as you can is how close you get, allowing yourself to take just a little comfort in him, just this once. You don’t deserve it, but you don’t deserve him, either, so it’s fine.

You feel his hold tighten on you. He mumbles something, turning his face into your hair, and you think he’s just talking in his sleep again. His hand rubs along your spine, though, and you feel him kiss your hair. He speaks again, and this time you make it out- your name. “AR?”

“Go back to sleep, dipshit,” you mumble back, never pulling away.

He must be too tired to argue, because he just hums and gives you another squeeze. He falls back asleep playing with your hair, while you try to convince yourself this isn’t everything you didn’t know you wanted.


	12. poison apple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is EXTREMELY experimental, extremely messy, and generally not very good, but fuck it. nothing in this collection is. we postin anyway. ar got turned human for a bit. dunno if i ever posted anything about how that happened the first time, but it happened again. hes kinda dramatic abt it

At this point, the concept of knowingly eating the poisoned apple is basically just a metaphor for your entire life. Or, in this case, the drugged muffin. 

You resent John for trying to drug you like some kind of fucking animal, absolutely, and he  will get his comeuppance. However, you've found your life is just so much easier when you spend 95% of it in varying stages of unconsciousness in John's bed. It's comfortable, the time passes faster, you don't have to think, and you don't have to find excuses for spending so much time curled up with John. 

Of course, you hate that it reduces you to some kind of invalid, dependent on John to make sure you don't pass out where you stand and so stupid needy for his attention in the last few moments of your consciousness. But you like not being awake. And, to your own personal disgust, you kind of like the moments when you wake up and he's there with you, still asleep, and still holding you. You don't have to deal with any of his stupid attempts to seduce you or love on you or anything. You can just… lie there with him, and enjoy how nice it feels to not be alone; and how nice he looks, when he's not busy being an idiot.

You think the fact that you knowingly choose to eat the drugged muffin makes up for your dependency on John afterward. You're not codependent. He's not manipulating you. You're making your own choices and everything is perfectly under your control, going exactly the way you want it.

Except you, and your dumbass, drugged head. You wish you kept a better lid on your more loving and affectionate urges when you were so out of it. It's humiliating to remember in the morning, and you're terrified John will become accustomed to it or something. You fear he might have already. 

Now, here's where the metaphor for your life comes in. The drugged muffin, in this demonstration, is your relationship with John. You took it, realized it was drugged and put distance between yourself and it in horror and disgust, and then decided, for some godforsaken reason, that you actually liked taking it better. You went right back, and willingly, knowingly, ate the drugged muffin again. It makes you stupid, and it makes you do things you shouldn't do, but your life may just be better off that way. Or at least, more appealing to deal with. 

You like having John in your life much better than having him out of it. He makes you stupid and he does even stupider things, but to your complete horror, you've grown unbelievably fond of his presence. It fucks you up that he's grown fond of yours in turn. 

You haven't been able to stop thinking about how John said he missed you all the time. You know that he's in love with you, but somehow you didn't really fully link that to how much he cares about you. It blows your mind that he thinks about you when you're not around, and that he wishes you were with him. Like, he actually, genuinely, would rather have your horrible, toxic, abusive ass around than not. After everything you've done to him, his biggest fear is that you're going to ditch him again. 

You must've broken him. Wasn't your goal in creating so much space between you for him to miss you? Isn't this what you wanted? You wanted him to value you more when you're here, and doesn't he? It's difficult to pry him off of you sometimes, with how loving he gets. You did that. You caused that. You got everything you wanted, just not at all in the way you wanted it.

God, you're so tired. You're not sure how much sense you're even making anymore. You wish you weren't trying to make sense at all. Your body feels like its been laid out and trampled, and you know it's because you haven't been taking good enough care of it, but you don't care. You never wanted this body, anyway.

You focus your attention on the sound of John's snoring. You can't go anywhere, because he's got his arms wrapped around you and he's  unfortunately strong, so there's not much else for you to do. You're too tired to try and fight it. Instead, you tuck your face into his collar and breathe him in. 

You don't know when feeling him next to you became so comforting. Everything is upside down and backwards to you, in a way that makes you feel sick and dizzy to focus on too hard. You can smell, you can taste, you hear and see and touch in a totally different and strange way that you don't know how to handle. You feel pain and you can't turn it off. Warm is comforting, soft is comforting, and John is the only thing that ever seems to cut through the horrible loops your brain throws you into. Sometimes it's deliberate, like when he tracks you down after you've worked yourself to exhaustion and drags you back. Sometimes it's accidental, like moments like these, where you shut your eyes and just focus on him. 

You're coping, this time, but only barely. You know John probably doesn't think so, and you hate that he gets to see you like this, exhausted and struggling to keep your sanity all the time. You try to just stay out of the house, so he doesn't see it, but you get the feeling he still knows. But it's better him than anyone else. At least he has the sense not to say anything that'll make you feel as weak as you are. 

Your mood swings are so bad. You're constantly switching wildly between overwhelming exhaustion, panic, and rage. John takes it all, like some kind of shock-absorbing stress ball. You yell at him, hit him, say the meanest things you can think of, and he keeps coming back, just in time to catch you when your exhaustion is too much to keep standing. At this point you're just trying to hide how scared you are. But you're afraid he already knows that, too. 

Sometimes you wake up and it's just too much. Sometimes, there's nothing you can do but cry until you feel hollow, and too tired to do anything but fall back asleep. He's never been good at comforting you, but he holds you and keeps his mouth shut, and that's enough.

Sometimes being around him is suffocating. Sometimes you wish he'd just do something, anything, in response to all your bullshit. You want him to get mad, to hit you, to leave you. But he won't. Somehow he's more needy and affectionate than ever. 

He  does get fed up with you pushing him away. But then he just threatens to leave you, and you almost hate that more than if he actually just left. At least you'd understand that. You get the feeling he only stays with you because he's hoping you'll change, but you don't change, and you can't understand why he doesn't give up.

He keeps trying to manipulate you, trying to hurt and scare you with threats of what he could do so you'll try harder to keep him as he is. You know how that works. You do it to him all the time. You just can't believe he'd have the nerve to try it with you, or that he actually is capable of scaring you. You're supposed to be tough and fearless. After everything you've been through, how could  this idiot be the thing that breaks you? How could the idea of  losing him be what breaks you? You should be fucking thankful to see him go.

But you're not. Everyone in your entire life has left you, one after another, and decided you weren't good enough for them. The idea of adding him to that list makes you want to cry. You just want  one person to care about you. You don't need anything else. You just need him. Without realizing, you've thrown all your chips in on this relationship, and you know he'd hurt you just as much as everyone else did if he left. 

Especially now. You couldn't survive without him. Not like this. If he left you now, you'd be fucked. You'd die. You'd actually, really die. He's all you  have . And he just, waves that in front of your face, like it's nothing. Like it's a joke to him. Like it's funny that you're so desperate and pathetic. 

If he left you, you'd have to go back to Roxy, and you  can't  do that. You couldn't fucking stand that. If anyone saw you like that, so weak and emotionally wrecked, you might as well just blow your own brains out then and there. You couldn't stand the questions, the worry, any of it. She doesn't know enough about you to understand.

Staying with her made you feel crazy. Like full on, rambling in an asylum crazy. Maybe you are, but you like to think you're the sexy, evil, functional kind of crazy. The kind that kicks ass and gets shit done. At Roxy's house, you just felt like a fool in a straightjacket, barely able to walk in a straight line. 

You've never been this pathetic in your life. At least when you were in the shades, you had some kind of excuse for your incompetence. You had a hold on your emotions. Now, you're just a wreck. You're lonely, and miserable, and scared, and you can't just ignore it like usual. You're fragile and you're so fucking ugly, trapped in this horrible body that makes you want to throw up just thinking about it. You have thrown up thinking about it before. And then, the act of throwing up grossed you out so much, you threw up again. You hate this body. You're so fucking freaked out and upset constantly it's a miracle you don't just spend all your time crying in John's bathtub. 

You really hate that he knows. You hate that he knows and he still threatens to leave you. You're so scared he might actually follow through.

But you trust him. Fuck, you trust him so much and you don't even have a good reason for it. Repeatedly, you put your life and reputation in his hands, with hardly any hesitation. You trust him to stay with you and take care of you and prioritize you. You shouldn't. Especially with the way the world is, and what the people you trusted before did to you. But you do. 

You're worried it might be wishful thinking. You're worried he likes Vriska better, that he'd rather spend time with his family than you, that they might convince him to leave you, that he might decide he doesn't want you anymore.

You're so tired of not being good enough for people. But you  want him to think you're enough. You pretend you're better than him to prove you're enough. You act like you don't care what he thinks but you care so fucking much, so you can't tell him how worthless you are. You can't have him see that. You need him to care about you, love you, worship you like you're so much better than you are.

But at the same time, when he does that, your skin crawls. It feels like a lie, or a trick, or a trap. It feels weird and foreign and wrong and you don't know how to deal with it. You're trying to learn, but it's hard when your instincts are battling over whether you should cry or run.

Today, the answer seems to be cry. 

You didn't mean to do it, but you're tearing up before you even realize. You try to hold it together, wiping away the tears before they hit John's shirt and trying to get your shit together. Your hope is you'll stop, and you won't wake John up. 

But you never do. It's like a fucking domino effect. The tears change into crying, changes into sobbing, your entire body shaking with it as you soak John's shirt. You want to get out of his hold and get away, but his grip is too strong, and it's hard to get up the energy when you're this tired and upset. No amount of squirming saves you, and you exhaust easily. You pound your fist on his chest, choking on a furious sob. 

He jolts awake with a snort, and his grip tightens on you even more, somehow. With your face shoved into him, you can't read his expression to tell what he's thinking. He says your name- confused, sleepy, and worried- and you hate him for it. His hand splays against your back, rubbing slowly, and you feel him kiss your head. 

You hate it when he tries to comfort you, and somewhere in the exhausted reaches of your mind, you know that. But you're so tired, and upset, you let him, clutching tightly to his shirt and trying to pack yourself as close into his space as possible.

You'd never let anyone else see you like this. You don't even want John to see you like this. But John's the only one you trust and can stand to let take care of you. Somehow, he's become the only truly reliable person in your entire life, and without meaning to, you cling to that. You think he may have also become the most important person in your entire life.

Besides you, of course.

Maybe he's right to expect you to prioritize him. He's the only person you can't abandon, the only one you give up plans for, the only one you ever  miss . But you won't tell him any of that. His head is big enough already, and you still remember how he reacted when you told him you trusted him. You're definitely not feeding that beast again. 

You kind of wish he'd show that much affection with you right now, though. You feel sick and miserable, and so…  disgusting . You're so ugly like this and you know it. You're as hideous as you are on the inside, and all of the emotions that were supposed to stay inside are now suddenly outside, and that's even worse. You're so pathetic like this. You're nothing like what you tried to be for him. You're not someone he could respect, or admire, or love, or care about at all. You're just fucking pitiful. You're everything you never wanted to be but that you know you are anyway, deep down, and with every passing day your sword looks a little friendlier. 

You hate yourself. You don't see how he doesn't too. You definitely don't get how he could ever love you.

You want him to, though. You don't deserve it, and you can't really process it or handle it at all, but you want it. You want John to kiss you like you're the only person in the world that matters and touch you like you're worth every second of time he spends on you. You want, selfishly, to be cared about. You want one fucking person to care what happens to you. You've gone so long alone, you just want  someone. You really, really want John, and he promised you that you could have him. 

You'll never forgive him if he breaks that promise, no matter how much he probably should.

He doesn't ask you what's wrong, probably because he's just so used to you losing your shit over dumb things all the time when you're human. He doesn't say anything at all, actually, except to mumble, "I love you," against your hair, which just serves to make you cry even harder.

You know he loves you and yet you don't believe him. The more he learns about you, the more he does, and the less you believe it. It doesn't make sense to you, and he's too stupid to explain it to you. You don't know that you could handle it if he could, though. 

He says he wants to know you. He says he wants to spend time with you, that he misses you, that he thinks about you. He says he wants to be something good for you. You're sure that if he's telling the truth, he's the only one who's ever felt that way. 

You want an explanation. You want to hear why. You want him to tell you he loves you in a million different ways, with words that show you he cares, and with touch that makes you feel like it's true. 

But he just holds you, until, with time, you calm back down again. 

You're still shaky when you press your face into the side of his neck, fingers fiddling with his collar like an anxious tic you can't stop. You've never been good at keeping still, but now it's a hundred times worse in this body you can't control. His arms hold you perfectly, braced against your back to keep you in close, and you try to concentrate on that, and the stupid cake smell that's always lingering on him. 

You don't want to hear it, but you still say, "Tell me you love me." Your voice sounds smaller than you want it too, less of a demand and more of a request. You hate that.

You don't think he understands, but judging by the way he mumbles, you don't think he's very awake right now either. So he says, "I love you."

"And you're mine?"

"Always." His voice gets so soft when he says that; so fond and loving that it makes you sick. He kisses your temple, equally soft, and you shove down the urge to throw up.

"And you won't leave me?"

"Are you scared I will?" 

You were hoping he'd just reply, as mindlessly as he had the first two times, but it seems like he's waking up a little more. The words make your stomach twist. You manage to say, with more confidence than you feel, "You won't."

If he tried to challenge you on that, you think you might start crying again.

But he doesn't. Instead, he rolls the two of you over, kissing into the side of your neck and up to your jaw. Every single kiss is so loving, with just enough insisting pressure, you know he's trying to get you to shut up, stop freaking out, and go back to sleep. No doubt he's exhausted, and not overly delighted that you woke him up.

If you convince yourself he's only kissing you because he wants you to sleep, it's easier to enjoy the kisses as they come. And, focusing on those, you calm all the way back down.

You don't fall back asleep. But, you don't cry again, either. You hold onto your heavy boyfriend and you trust, even though you shouldn't, that he won't leave you.


	13. who are you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> entirely theoretical, what if scenario, of like, IF john and ar broke up again. in which case, john would 100% wipe his own memory of ar, as he did the first time they broke up. like, this doesnt happen, but what if it did yfm? idr when i wrote this so im picking a random date

"Who are you?" 

The words felt like getting stabbed, even before you had any idea of what was going on. 

It'd been a long time since you'd come back to John's place, and you needed food desperately. Your stomach has that feeling that it does whenever it's threatening to growl, and you’re really hoping it doesn’t do that in front of John. Your plan was to get food, maybe spend a while messing with your boyfriend, and then go back to work. Simple, easy.

Your plans were halted when, in the middle of digging through the fridge, you heard John's voice cut through the silence. "Um." It’s the kind of 'um' someone only utters when they're trying to interrupt... whatever's going on here.

So, you lean back, out of the fridge, and give him an irritated look. "What?"

He looks fairly irritated, too, and totally lost. He waves his hands, in the way that he does when he's just so confused and flustered by something that he doesn't know where to start. "What the fuck are you doing? Who are you?"

You're certain he's fucking with you. It's some kind of horrible, fucked up revenge scheme, to get back at you for shoving him off and making him get out the other day, and the day before that, and the day before that. He'd threatened to leave you each time, and you'd still sent him away, and now he was trying to scare you into believing he actually meant it in order to make you feel bad.

Well, it's fucked up. The words are like a slap, ringing in your ears long after they left his mouth, and you're quiet for a beat too long. You manage to bite back the swell of feelings, somehow, and even though he's already won, you try to keep your dignity intact. You don't have to make this worse than it is. You don’t have to have a whole fit about it, right here and right now. But he is going to  _ pay _ for even joking about that. 

There's still too much venom in your voice when you say, "You're a comedian, John," and throw the bread down a little too harshly onto the counter. 

"No, seriously. Get out? What the fuck. What makes you think you can just go barging into someone's house and just start stealing all of their food!" His expression isn't smug, it isn't triumphant, it's still confused and growing steadily more irritable and you hate him for trying to drag this on any longer.

Because the longer he drags it on, the more the knife twists, and the more scared you get.

"Because,  _ sweetheart _ ," you say, with such clear disdain behind the word you hope not even he can turn that into some kind of thing, "either you eat, or you die, and I'm not particularly feeling that second option, no matter how tempting it is as an alternative to dealing with you."

"Excuse me?" he demands.

"Drop the bullshit, John." You sigh, annoyed, and reach for him. 

He steps back.

Something in your chest shatters.

You don't hear what he says next. You're too busy staring at him like an idiot, dumbfounded, hand still hanging in the air. He'd never. He wouldn't pull away from you. He-

He forgot you. He forgot you, again. 

You trusted him. You believed him. He told you he loved you and you  _ believed _ that. You thought he cared about you. You trusted him to take care of you. You thought he wanted to. 

You thought he wanted  _ you. _

"Dude, breathe." You don't realize you've started crying until John touches your shoulder. Your vision is swimming in tears, but it'd been so out of focus anyway, you didn't notice or care. Your cheeks are wet, and more tears keep rolling down them. You've stopped breathing. You feel dizzy.

John's face is worried, but far more than that, it's uncomfortable. There's no love in it. He doesn’t want you here. He’s not going to hold you. You’re just some weirdo, having a mental breakdown in his house.

You press your hands over your face, and when you try to breathe, you choke on a sob.

Even the way he touches you is like he'd prefer not to, so light and uncomfortable, like he'll take his hand back at any second. He so obviously doesn't know what to do with you, but you don't care. Fuck him. It's his damn fault, anyway.

God, what do you do? What do you  _ do? _ He's gone. He left you, he doesn't want you, he's done, and he didn't even have the decency to tell you beforehand. You shouldn't be surprised. No one's ever wanted you. But that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.

You were so stupid. You really thought he loved you. You thought he'd stay. You thought that maybe, for once in your miserable fucking life, you had  _ someone _ .

The worst part of it all is, you really loved him. You wanted him. You cared about him. You trusted him with everything. You even thought that, maybe, you could tell him everything. You could be you, and he'd still love you, and want you. Even after knowing how worthless you are. You’d actually believed that.

You don't know how you could be so stupid.

You thought John was bad at comforting before, but now that he doesn't know you, it's even worse. He pats you lightly on the shoulder like you're something particularly disgusting that he wants out of his house as soon as possible. Which. You guess is true.

Whatever. You save him the trouble. You scrub your wrist past your eyes, wiping away tears, and then jab your hand into him, sending every bit of electricity you have stored in your gloves right into him. And then you leave.

At home, if you can even call your hideout that, you sit in a corner and cry until you make yourself sick, and then some, until you don't have anything left in you to cry out or throw up. After, you just sit and stare at the floor, holding onto the hollow feeling that keeps away just a little of the pain, and try to think about what to do.

You should burn all of his shit.

But you won't.

You should cut off your useless human limbs and replace them, so you have a better chance of survival. 

But you won't, because he's not here to make sure you survive. 

You should get some food, or water, or something.

But you won't, because he doesn't care anymore, and he won't make you anymore, and you don't want to go to Roxy again, because she doesn’t really care either.

Instead, you sit there until you fall asleep.

You don't wake up. 

Instead, you start up. Your senses come back to you slowly, the way that they should, in the definition of slow as you know it to be. The hideout comes back online with the simplest thought. A cleaning bot gets to work cleaning up the giant mess you've accumulated in the last month.

In one body, Roxy hugs you tightly, asking you where you've been. In two others, you take in an empty bubble and start to head back home. At home, you stand up, stretching slowly.

Your emotions turn off and they don't turn back on again. The urge to go and wreck John's shit disappears. Finally, you feel like you can breathe again. Ironic, given how you don't need to anymore.

You pull up designs for a plan you haven't given real thought to in a long time and start working. This time, you won't be distracted.


End file.
